Unauthorized Absence
by L. E. Wigman
Summary: Problems arise on Carter and LeBeau's first mission together. An answer to Abracadebra's challenge #373 Bring Back the Whump! (Hopefully, this is sufficiently whumpy) PBA Winner: Bronze; Best Medium Drama
1. It's A Long Way Home

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Hogan's Heroes, obviously. ;)

Author's Note: The setting of this story is not long after Carter's permanent placement in camp 13. It was a lot of fun to write and was born out of two previous attempts to answer the challenge. So, to all you writers out there... if at first you don't succeed, have a good cry and try again! :D

* * *

"She's dead."

There were a few seconds of silence as LeBeau frowned. "What do you mean she is dead?" he asked, standing on tip-toe to see over Carter's shoulder.

"The krauts at the depot put two holes in her," he said simply. He pulled the hood up to release the catch, letting it drop into place with a loud thud. "Right in the radiator and without water, the engine gets too hot and burns out."

LeBeau looked around and saw nothing, except snowy, ice-crusted trees and muddy road. They'd limped along for about twenty minutes, but they were still a long way from camp. He checked his watch by the moonlight. They were running out of time.

"How are we to get back, hmm?"

Carter shrugged, rolling down his sleeves and buttoning them. "I guess we walk."

"That will take hours. We'll freeze to death!" LeBeau complained, as Carter moved over to the driver's side and fiddled with the brakes. LeBeau continued, "And what about the car? How will we deal with Hindberg? And when the Gestapo find it…"

Carter turned on him, snapping. "I don't know! Alright, I don't know what we're going to do about any of that. What I do know is that we can't fix it from here and we sure can't stay here all night. Are you going to help me push this off the main road or not?"

Still muttering under his breath, LeBeau took a position on the passenger's side and began to push into the frame. They heaved together and the vehicle inched forward, sliding into the dead grass. The icy slush squished and mixed into the mud, as they slowly pushed the car out of sight.

"Watch out!"

Carter lost his footing as they discovered a slight dip that led into an even deeper ditch. The car slammed into the bottom, sinking up to the hubcaps. LeBeau hurried around the vehicle to his comrade and found him sitting in the mud.

He sighed. "Sorry, LeBeau."

LeBeau rolled his eyes and held a hand out, pulling the American to his feet. He noticed the wince Carter gave and the sudden shift of weight off of his left leg. "Are you all right?" he asked.

"Fine," Carter replied, waving off the concern. "Twisted my ankle a little is all."

"You're sure?"

"Yeah, get the map out of the glovebox, please."

He retrieved the map and together they plotted a course before setting out. LeBeau led the way with the map tucked into a pocket, using a flashlight only when the clouds rolled over the half-moon. Carter limped behind, determinedly ignoring the throbbing pain in his ankle and doing his best to keep pace.

H~H

Newkirk stood in line, not listening to Colonel Hogan try to manipulate Schultz and Klink, while Burkhalter glowered on the porch. His gaze was focused on the gates, as if he expected those two halfwits to drive through at any moment. Of course, he knew they wouldn't. They were dressed as Germans and driving a bloody kraut vehicle that Corporal Hindberg would completely deny taking two-hundred Marks worth of gold in payment for the use of.

They'd been roused from the barracks at 5:30, although they hadn't been sleeping. His late night venture into the Kommandant's office safe had been fruitful and the negatives of Burkhalter's papers - which contained the whereabouts of a number of high-ranking political prisoners - were to be taken to the submarine tonight. The rest of the wee hours were spent laying in his bunk, smoking and waiting for the sound of the bunk rising.

He could've kicked himself for not being with them, wherever they were. Burkhalter started down the steps. Damned kraut. If he wasn't here, Newkirk would have been with those two and he would have made sure things turned out okay.

"Klink," Burkhalter yelled as he approached. "What is going on? It's a quarter to nine, why are these men still here?"

"We live here, General," Hogan interjected helpfully. "I was just explaining to the Kommandant that the count is off because two of my men were taken into the infirmary last night with a really bad cough. Kept us up all night, right, fellas?"

The men of barracks two quickly agreed, but Klink said in a frustrated whine, "Impossible. The infirmary is empty."

"I sent them straight to the infirmary," Hogan insisted, pointing an accusatory finger at the kommandant. "It's your responsibility to insure proper medical aid. If you've lost them in your system, I will be filing a complaint with Switzerland."

"It's not _my_ system…"

"Klink," Burkhalter's nasally voice interrupted irritably. "The prisoners have escaped."

Hogan's eyes widened in feigned surprise as Klink shouted for the alarm to sound. The blaring alarm mixed with Klink's denigration of Schultz and his abilities as a guard, before he hollered dismissal. The prisoners were shoved into their barracks with the windows barred shut.

"Tunnel," Hogan said shortly, "Watch the door, Olsen."

Newkirk followed Hogan and Kinch down to the tunnel. Kinch warmed up the radio, while Hogan began a slow, steady pace. Newkirk watched the colonel, growing increasingly impatient.

"We're not just gonna leave 'em out there?"

Hogan didn't even register the low, edged complaint, he was too busy assessing the possibilities. A hundred things could have gone wrong and of those hundred things maybe half of them were manageable. The rest were, realistically, beyond his control. And that very fact made him want to pace out the nervous energy.

Kinch answered in his place. "Of course, we aren't, but we don't know what happened or where they are. Until we find that out, we just have to be patient."

"I don't like waiting," Newkirk muttered, poking around for a cigarette and the familiar comfort of the object between his fingers.

Kinch dug his pack out of a cubby and tossed it to the Brit. "Welcome to my world," he said softly.

H~H

LeBeau studied the map. Dawn had broken hours ago, meaning they were incredibly late and there was no telling if the colonel had been able to cover for them. More likely, regardless of Hogan's tremendous abilities, they were going to be walking into the arms of Schultz, his guards, and some play-acting shepherds.

"We're still a half-hour from camp," he said, keeping his voice low. "We need to pick up the pace." He looked up and finally caught sight of his comrade's face. Carter was as white as a sheet and sweat beaded on his forehead with a few drops trickling down his neck. "Andre," he said softly to catch his attention. "Your ankle?"

Carter looked up and tried to force a grin, but it quickly turned into a grimace. "It's okay," he replied through clenched teeth. "It'll have to be."

"No, it isn't. Let's get that boot off," LeBeau said, scooting over to where he sat on a small boulder among a stand of walnut trees. He gently took hold of the boot causing Carter to suck in a breath at the movement.

He quickly shook his head. "Can't. Too swollen. Besides, we've a long way to go. Terrain's rough. I'll need the boot."

The American's breathing was shallow and quick. LeBeau pursed his lips, wanting to disagree, but knowing he couldn't. "Wait here," he said, standing and brushing the cold muddy spot on the knee of his pants.

"We gotta get going," Carter said. He started to stand quickly, feeling his head spin and his vision tunnel. "You can't leave me here."

The last part was verging on a plea, but retained just enough calmness to preserve both men's dignity. LeBeau reached his hand up to Carter's shoulder and forced him to sit down. "I'll be back. I promise."

A small niggling doubt pushed into his mind as he watched LeBeau disappear over the hilltop. Doubt that his friend would indeed return. It wouldn't have been the first time a comrade gave his word and broke it.

"_You stay here, Carter."_

"_But…"_

"_I'll just check that crossroads then I'll be back for you."_

He shivered remembering the agonious wait for Phelps to return; however, the only thing he got that night was an armed escort to the solitary cells in Stalag 5 complete with mice, roaches, and a spider or two to make life interesting. The memory was enough to send his hand up to his neck in search of creepy-crawlies. Although he'd never seen Phelps again, he occasionally found himself wondering what had happened to him. Sometimes he hoped he got back to England, but other times he found a less magnanimous attitude prevailed.

But LeBeau wouldn't do that. This wasn't an escape attempt. He'd be back, he told himself as he fought the fidgety feeling that made his fingers tap nervously against his thigh. Any moment his head would pop up over the crest of that hill.

Any second.

His eyes squinted and he licked his lips. _Come on, _he thought. _Right now_.

_LeBeau?_

He struggled up to his feet and tested his ankle with some light pressure. The pain was there, shooting up his leg and into his hip, but didn't get much worse as he applied a bit more weight. He started to hobble forward, until he reached a tall elm and he leaned against it.

_You've been left again…_

The thought swirled in his mind, taunting him with its likelihood. He was the newest member of the team. If there was someone who was going to slip up or goof, it was he. Gosh, even he knew that. They'd probably be better off if they just left him here. He'd passed some of his knowledge on to Newkirk … at least, enough to keep him from blowing himself up… Sure, he'd miss him. They were friends for pity's sake, but there was no denying that the operation could do without his frequent mistakes.

He pushed off from the tree and followed the path LeBeau had taken. He made two or three hobbled, out-of-control steps before he inadvertently put his full weight on the bad ankle. The pain was unbearable and he lost his balance, falling into the slush and soaking the right leg of his pants. Lights danced in his vision and he took deep breaths to steady his shakiness.

The slush acted like a bucket of cold water, bring him back to his senses as the pain settled down some and a chill settled in. He really missed his jacket. Why hadn't he grabbed it before they abandoned the truck? Sighing, he realized that he would simply have to wait for LeBeau to return. He couldn't walk back that leg. Slowly he crawled into the brush, seeking a drier spot to wait.

* * *

_TBC..._


	2. An Unlikely Ally

Karl Langenscheidt followed behind Sergeant Kristman, who barked orders with the insatiable glee of a sadist. After the prisoners were locked into their barracks, Burkhalter went into full form, making his sarcastic digs at the kommandant, who in return lashed out his frustration on Schultz. The poor sergeant of the guard had taken his tongue-lashing with an uncommon, though remarkable, amount of stoicism; however, the hit to his ego was felt throughout the ranks.

Langenscheidt still felt bad as he marched through the gates, dog leads in hand, to find the missing prisoners, while Schultz walked with full pack up and down the fence line from the gate to the corner. Kristman divided the men into four groups, each group had two dogs. They weren't at all vicious, but Langenscheidt felt duty-bound to keep the two rowdiest dogs in hand. Sergeant Schultz had given him the look. Keep an eye on them, that look said. Get them home safe and sound.

Many of the guards and even the prisoners made the mistake of boiling the sergeant of the guard down to a cowardly, though loveable, self-preservationist. Langenschiedt would readily admit that he held these traits, but - in getting to know him this past year - he knew Schultz to be an intelligent and honorable man. Often Schultz counseled him on the art of knowing nothing… and it wasn't just for Karl's own good, either. These prisoners must be kept safe and if the cost of that was a little bit of monkey-business… well, let's just say it's a price Schultz was willing to pay.

Kristman was on the opposite end of the camp guard spectrum. He was unkind at the best of times and a brute when roused on the wrong side of bed. He thought very little of Schultz's self-imposed duty-of-care and even less of these two PoWs, especially. Lagenschiedt didn't know what happened between he and the cockroach, but last year's Halloween festivities had resulted in Kristman being made a fool, for which he blamed Carter. (And rightly so, as it was his smoke and mirrors, coupled with Newkirk's idea, which led Kristman to believe in the Ghost of Shower Stall 3!)

The mud squished around his boots as Langenscheidt made his way up the hill. Honig and Fritzi tugged him forward, panting and wagging their tails madly. They were built for the chase and Schnitzer made sure they knew the rules of this game; a game they were more than happy to play.

Suddenly, Honig stopped and picked her head up. She'd spotted something through the brush and emitted a soft whine.

LeBeau had made good time without Carter slowing him down. Dodging the patrols, he'd felt marginally guilty that he didn't get the American better situated, but he'd collected the uniforms - changing into his own - and was now on his way back to Andre. A sharp snap of twigs had sent him sliding into the brush to his left and into a crouch. Another patrol was sweeping past with two of the dogs.

He instantly recognized Honig and quickly put his finger to his lips as she cocked her head to the side, as if awaiting an instruction. _Go on, smart girl, _he thought, gesturing away from himself. _Lead the bosche away. Good girl._

She barked softly and gave a playful growl, wagging her tail as she lay down.

LeBeau tapped his finger against his lips, scowling when she barked again and scratched at the ground.

"Was is los, Honig?"

LeBeau pressed back further until his back hit the base of one of the trees. Honig crawled forward, wiggling as far into the brush as her lead would allow. She pushed her nose into his hand, seeking the bits of goodies she often found hiding there.

"Honig," Langenscheidt hissed, leaning down to tug at her collar. He briefly caught sight of an unmistakable, bright red sweater and then his attention settled on the black, sheep-skin lined coat in the Frenchman's lap. A coat that looked very much like the one Carter always wore.

Their eyes met and time stopped as LeBeau tensed in dread. A million things ran through his mind all at once, but the one that was foremost was the American, sitting injured and alone in an enemy uniform. He held Carter's ticket to not being shot in his hands with Langenschiedt seconds away from leaving him up the proverbial creek without a paddle.

"Langenchiedt!"

The shout from Kristman jolted time back into motion and Langenscheidt pulled hard on the dogs leads as he turned away, almost bumping into the sergeant. Honig and Fritzi strained against their master and towards the brush.

Kristman frowned. "Was…" he asked, before Langenschiedt cut him off.

"Rabbit."

"I've never seen those two react like that to a rabbit." Kristman's voice was suspicious and he stared into the brush.

"They're animals, Sergeant," he said, offering a weak smile. "Sometimes they can't help it."

LeBeau listened to the corporal lie and cover for him; not daring to move as Kristman finally relented, yelling at the dogs and sending Langenschiedt on his way. He watched the toes of Kristman's boots, which were still pointing directly at him.

Slowly the boots moved away and LeBeau relaxed enough to breathe. He crawled from the bushes, glanced this way and that, and resumed his walk to the boulder with the stand of walnuts.

A couple more close shaves and fifteen minutes later, he reached the hill. _It should be just over the hill_, he thought. Coming up to the boulder, LeBeau frowned. Carter was not in sight.

"Andre?" he whispered, taking a chance and hoping he wasn't too late. A little louder. "Andre?"

A faint groan drew him to where Carter had stumbled and then hid. He helped him out of the brush and into an upright position. "What are you doing over here?" he complained, starting at the buttons of the German uniform.

"You came back…" Carter drawled in surprise.

LeBeau switched to French as he helped the American out of the tunic and into his own shirt and coat, ignoring the shivering and chattering of teeth.

"Of course, I came back. I said I would. What do you think? That I leave comrades to their fate?"

"I thought you'd be better off…"

LeBeau frowned as he finished helping Carter change. He was talking nonsense and his speech was slurring, as one does when very tired. He began to realize just how cold Carter was.

"Just hang on, Andre," he whispered, easing his friend down. He straightened and scanned the area. _Of course! _On his way there he stumbled over every boche patrol in the woods; however, now that he was ready to be caught…. nada.

He bit his lip, unwilling to leave his comrade for a second time, but recognizing the need to get back to camp quickly. He put his fingers to his lips and let out a clear, high-pitched whistle. In the distance he heard a chorus of barking and he rushed to obscure the German uniform and help Carter back up.

"Let's go home, mon pote."

H~H

The heavy truck that had accompanied the patrols when they left earlier that morning rolled through the gates a little after two in the afternoon to a waiting throng of guards and prisoners. Kristman had radioed in triumphantly, pleased to have made a name for himself while General Burkhalter was still around to hear it. The men closed in around the truck and Hogan breathed a sigh of relief when LeBeau and Langenschiedt jumped down, then turned to help Carter.

"Take these men to the cooler," Klink crowed, puffing out his chest authoritatively.

"Kommandant," Hogan protested as Kinch and Newkirk replaced LeBeau and Lagenscheidt beneath Carter's arms. "Carter's in bad shape. He needs medical care."

Klink started to waiver. Carter certainly looked pitiful with pale face and glazed over eyes. The boot was pressing against the ankle and for the last fifteen minutes on the truck, it throbbed with a steady, monotonous pulse of pain.

"He can receive treatment in the cooler."

Klink bobbed his head at Burkhalter's monotoned suggestion. "Quite right, herr General. Schultz!"

Schultz snapped to attention, but Berkhalter again intervened. "I should think that today's debacle should warrant serious evaluation of the men you have positioned in places of authority. Don't you think so, Klink?"

"Yes, Herr General." Klink agreed, gesturing to Kristman. "Take these prisoners to the cooler and send for the medic."

LeBeau and Carter were escorted roughly to the underground cells, in spite of Hogan's protests. Kristman unlocked the first cell and LeBeau was shoved in, spouting insults and curses in a mixture of French, English, and the odd word of German.

Carter managed a weak smile. He loved it when the krauts got some of their own dished back to them. Kristman slammed the cell shut and turned his simmering fury on the remaining prisoner by jerking his arm and making Carter put his weight on the bad ankle.

Carter didn't remember much after that, except LeBeau's shouts became louder before he lost consciousness. When he awoke hours later, he was tucked into a cot with an extra blanket. His ankle - neatly and tightly wrapped in a clean white cloth - was propped up by a pillow doubled over. His eyes scanned the room and he was surprised to find that, instead of the dim, dirty, grey walls of the cooler, he was in the much brighter, cleaner infirmary. He frowned. _But Burkhalter said… _

"Ah, you're awake."

He looked around seeking the source of the voice. Finally he saw Wilson coming around the blanket curtain that separated the medics' living quarters from the rest of the infirmary. He carried a plain wooden tray which he set on the table in between Carter's bed and the bed to the left containing the latest victim of the flu from barracks five. Wilson unceremoniously slid a thermometer into that patient's mouth, then turned his attention to Carter.

"How's the pain?"

"Fine."

Wilson cocked an eyebrow, saying, "So, in Hogan speak that means it hurts like hell, but you won't say a damn thing, right?"

Dodging the question to ask one of his own, Carter spoke softly. "Why aren't I in the cooler?"

"Colonel talked to the Kommandant… threatened, more like. Especially after Kristman manhandled you. Said he'd lodge a formal complaint. Klink complained that he had to have two men in the cooler or Burkhalter would have his hide, so they compromised. Newkirk and LeBeau are serving the sentence and in exchange Klink is knocking two weeks off it. Now, why don't you tell me how much pain you're really in?"

Carter half sat up. "But they can't do that. It isn't right."

Wilson pushed him back. "Your ankle's broken, Carter. I don't know how you managed to get back to camp, but recovery is going to be bad enough without catching pneumonia."

Carter fell silent. He'd learned from experience that Wilson wasn't one to be argued with. No sooner would you think you'd won then he'd jab you with a syringe and you'd be asleep before you could say, 'ouch… that hurts'.

"LeBeau did walk me through the making of some sort of stew when I looked him over," Wilson continued, extracting the thermometer and squinting at the side of it. "It'll be ready in about an hour. Why don't you try to get some more sleep - the both of you. There's nothing better for healing the body then shutting down and letting it heal itself."

He dug two pills out of a bottle that he'd pulled from his pants pocket and set them on the table, along with a small mug of water from the tray. "Aspirin," he said, his tone and features softening ever so slightly. "If the pain gets too bad, you take 'em and drink all the water… and that's an order."

Carter watched him go while pondering the sacrifice his comrades were making for him. It wasn't logical. Newkirk hated being confined, probably because he spent so much time there before Hogan came. Perhaps Newkirk was just banking favors… yeah, that must be it.

But then there was LeBeau … the chef had originally been Newkirk's friend. He'd been friendly enough, however Carter couldn't claim any deep closeness. They were polar opposites in almost every way. They seldom agreed on anything from food to women to - well, everything.

He couldn't really wrap his mind around it and he didn't really care for the sense of obligation he felt. He'd have to find a way to make it up to them both. He hurt too much to think of a way right now, so he shifted in the bed with a groan. Sliding the aspirin off the table, he plopped them in his mouth and drained most of the water. He settled back and shut his eyes considering the responsibility he had towards them and to Kinch and Colonel Hogan, too. They needed their demo-man to be focused and to not goof up anything. So, that's what he decided to do. He'd be the best demo-man they ever had, dad-blamit! With the decision made and the application pending, he yawned and drifted off to sleep.

The End


End file.
